


Shotgun Shells and a Baseball Bat

by eggstasy



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Dementia, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-13 16:54:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4529721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggstasy/pseuds/eggstasy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An abandoned mental health hospital with the patients still inside.  A rogue Red Cross facility that's been off the grid more than it's been on.  A motorcycle gang turned good Samaritans. Family protecting family the only way they know how.  </p><p>The zombie apocalypse sucks major fucking balls, but at least it isn't boring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October, 2024

"Don't."

The way Carolina shifts her weight reminds him of the doctors, which is unfair of him. He knows her sympathy is real, he just hates it and wants her to choke on it along with her suggestions. "Wash." That's it, just that. She's being uncharacteristically gentle, but then she's always been kinder than people give her credit for.

"We don't know yet." His voice comes out like he's in another room. He's not here, he's not here. "Maybe nothing got in. It was bleeding a lot."

"Wash-"

"It's happened before. Lots of times." He won't let her tell him the truth. He can't look at her. He watches instead from across the room as Tucker's hands shake, winding the gauze around and around and around.

"It's already starting to rot," Carolina murmurs.

Around and around. Way too much gauze, especially with supplies as low as they are. Wash gets it. He doesn't want to see it either. "Could just be regular infection. Gangrene. He'll lose the arm but he'll live, we just need to get somewhere to-"

" _David._ "

Wash's mouth snaps shut. The name is like a sedative, the kind they used to put his cat to sleep when he was ten.

"We have to do it. He's infected. Someone like him turns around us, we'll all be in trouble." Carolina takes a breath like it hurts. It probably does. Maybe she's seeing the ghosts of Maine, the twins. York. "We've got one shot left for the rifle. I'll do it from a distance. He won't even see me. Won't hurt at all."

Wash knows when she starts to plan that it's already over but he has to try. "Boss I can't, I'm already- What happened to Church is my fault and I acknowledge that, but I can't-" Her face is unmoving and he tries harder, "He _saved_ me. If he hadn't gotten in the way-"

"Then we'd be talking about how to put a bullet into _your_ head instead."

"It would be better that way."

Carolina looks like she disagrees but all she says is, "Whether or not that's true, it's not the case now."

And Washington can't argue with that.

"...go tell him something to make him happy. Step back when you're ready."

Washington walks over like his feet are in another room too, another city, another country. Five meters never felt so long.

Tucker looks up when Wash approaches and the fear in his eyes is obvious but there's acceptance too. He knew right when it happened, like Carolina. Wash nods. "C'mere kiddo," Tucker says as he scoops Junior up and stands. The boy is unusually quiet and Wash thinks it's a sign that the human race is done for when five years is enough time to learn when it's necessary to blow somebody's brains out.

Wash lowers himself onto his good knee. The other cracks a little. "Hey Caboose."

Caboose picks at the gauze Tucker had tied off. "H-hi Agent Wash-ington," he stammers past chattering teeth. His eyes keep unfocusing, his whole body shudders. It's obvious. Washington pretends it isn't. "I'm sick."

Washington wants to scream. He reaches up to pat Caboose's cheek and almost yanks his hand away when Caboose leans into the touch and closes his eyes. His skin feels too hot. The body fighting a losing battle. Washington thinks _I don't deserve this_ and says, "I know, buddy." His heart bleeds down into his stomach and makes it sick with him and Tucker rests his son on his hip to leave. Junior stares at Washington over his father's shoulder with those great big gray eyes and Washington wants to scream, scream scream.

"Am I sick like how Church was sick?"

"No, this is different." Wash thinks about asking for that bullet in the head anyway. Should he tell Caboose the truth? Would he understand what's going to happen? Should he thank Caboose for saving him? Get him up and run with him? Carolina might not be willing to shoot him to get Caboose, he thinks. Maybe.

"Wash."

Washington comes back and looks at Caboose. "Yeah?" He pushes Caboose's bangs off his sweaty forehead.

"You're very nice," Caboose whispers, eyes still closed.

Despite Caboose's diagnosis Wash thinks there had to be times when he knew exactly what was going on. Maybe more than they realized. Or maybe he can sense emotions or tension. It's a skill people lose touch with as they get old and selfish but Caboose never did; he got older, just never made it to selfish.

It's the cruelest thing Caboose could've said, though.

"Thanks, buddy." Wash doesn't know how he manages. He doesn't know what he's going to be after this. "I have a surprise for you. We found Church."

"Church?" Caboose's eyes open too sluggishly to be alert but it's the most awareness Wash has seen on his face in a long time.

"Yeah. Turns out he got out after all." It has to be done now or Wash will just lie down and die right here with him. _Think of Tucker and Junior_ , he tells himself as he drops his hand to his knee, braces, pushes himself up. _Think of Carolina._ He can just see her lifting the rifle to her shoulder further down the hall. "Close your eyes. I'm gonna bring him over."

"I can't wait," Caboose gushes, grin huge and tired and trusting as he trembles and closes his eyes again. Head back and kneeling in the only circle of light on this entire floor he looks like he's praying. Wash tries to burn that into his mind. "Did you know that I'm his best friend?"

"Yeah." Wash steps back into the dark. "I know."

He makes himself watch.

Later when they're outside and the body's on a pyre and Wash is still watching he remembers what Church said to him once.

_Dude? You guys are some cold motherfuckers._

_Yeah._ Wash listens to fire snap. The air stinks like burnt roast. He'll never eat or sleep again, he just knows it. _Y'know what Church? You were probably right._


	2. Roses Are Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> June, 2019

"You ever wonder why we're here?"

"Gimme that socket wrench."

"That's the long, hard one with the thing on the end, right?"

Sarge stared over the seat at Donut. Donut stared back.

"Go get Lopez."

Lopez knew what a socket wrench was. Lopez was annoyed because he was _busy_ but Lopez would still do what Sarge asked out of some freakish sense of loyalty. Get your life saved just once and apparently you owe it to someone. Asshole couldn't even learn Spanish.

"Well, Sarge? Do you?"

"No son, I _know_ why I'm here. I'm here to fix this bike, then get on it and shoot some undead brains outta some undead skulls! And then _other_ people's brains out of their undead guts!"

"Come on Sarge, you can't say you've never even thought about it!"

"I sure can. Sounds like a stupid thing to think about!" Sarge grunted and yanked free a hose that made Lopez throw his arms up in exasperation. "Sounds like something two knuckleheads would waste time talking about while they stood around and did absolutely nothing useful! And I don't want you falling into habits that only the truly moronic entertain. Remember that!"

Donut saluted. "Okey dokey, sir!"

"That's what I like to hear. Now. Have you done the routine maintenance on your machine yet?"

"Of course! What do you take me for, Sarge? I rubbed down that leather seat until it was so soft that my skin got a little jealous! And _then_ I polished all the chrome bits until I could see my face in them, which _really_ helped with fixing my helmet hair-"

"Damn it Donut, when I said I wanted you to take care of your bike I didn't mean give it a makeover! Get over there and give it a tune-up!"

"Sure thing, sir! What kind of wrenches should I use?"

Sarge told Lopez to do it for him.

The sun was setting by the time they'd finished so the night would be spent stationary. Sarge, Donut and Lopez wheeled the bikes into the makeshift garage and pulled the alluminum siding back over the opening to keep any zombies from wandering in. They gave each other boosts up onto the roof of the garage and Donut had a campfire well on its way to cooking strength when they heard it.

A mumbling groan echoed from further the road, the shambling figure following after into the shadows near a hollowed-out and long-looted Quik N' Sip.

"I've got it!" Donut bounced up onto his toes and headed over to a pile of stones. He selected one carefully, squinted to line up his target and let fly.

A block away, something heavy and wet smacked into the pavement.

"That's why I keep you around," Sarge said as he struggled to open a can of pork and beans with a bowie knife. ( _"Sarge, why don't you use the can opener?" "Because this looks much more intimidating to any potential enemies that might try to ambush us while we eat!" "But you can't get the can open without cutting yourself." "EVEN MORE INTIMIDATING! SHOWS I'M NOT AFRAID OF PAIN!" "Ay dios mio."_ )

"Aww, thank you Sarge!" Donut stepped up a foot onto the railing and shaded his eyes. "He might be down but I can't tell. Maybe I should go check?"

"No estoy ahorrando si vas," Lopez warned, not looking up from organizing the ammunition bag.

"Good idea Lopez! Just keep throwing rocks over there, Donut. If you hear a groan that sounds like 'stop that,' it means you didn't kill it yet! So keep going until you don't hear that sound!"

"Yes sir!"

By the time Donut ran out of rocks, Sarge was nearly through his can of beans and Lopez had repacked the ammo bag. "Hey Sarge-"

"Don't tell me! You think that _cowardly cadaver_ might still be alive! I've got just the plan. Using only twine, lumber and the rest of Lopez's rations-"

" _¿QUÉ?_ "

"-we'll construct an elaborate contraption to lure the dirty bastard in close-"

"¿POR QUÉ _MIS_ RACIONES?"

"Sarge, come on!" Donut threw himself down next to the dying fire and held out his fingers over it, rubbing the warmth back into them. "I'm pretty sure the zombie's dead, sir. I just wanted to ask you a question."

"Ah." Sarge didn't bother to hide the disappointment in his voice. "Well, if you have to."

Donut threw himself back to lay down, tucking his hands behind his head. "Do you ever think about joining back up with the Redhawks?"

"Nope." Sarge tossed the first aid kit out of his backpack to reach a questionably clean handkerchief, wrapping it around the cut on his palm. "That time's come and gone. Buncha low-down, yellow-bellied tail-turnin' good-fer-nothin's! Probably couldn't even kill a single caddy!"

Donut nodded along. "Probably couldn't kill any zombies either."

"Caddies _are_ zombies, Donut! That's the new term. Caddy's for cadaver. Everybody's been usin' zombie for years, it just doesn't hold the same meaning. So start using caddy!"

"Yeah, but Sarge if you say things like, 'Donut! Go shoot that caddy in the face!' that makes it sound like you really hate golf."

"Of course I hate golf! It's not even a contact sport!"

"That's fair. I'm definitely all for contact."

"And it's boring to watch!"

"That's _really_ fair! I'm all for a sport that involves skill and control when lining yourself up, but the follow-through leaves a lot to be desired. And I mean, those _clothes_! Ugh. You can't even say they're bad enough to circle back around into good!"

"Sssure, Donut. All of that too."

"All right, Sarge! I've seen the light. Caddies from now on!"

"Atta boy, Donut!"

"¿Por qué estoy todavía con estas personas...?"

 

* * *

 

Grif was pulling at the IV when Simmons slapped his hand away. He waited until Simmons was absorbed in his nerd scribbles before resuming.

" _Stop that._ " Simmons smacked his hand again.

"When's lunch?"

Simmons sighed. "The same time it is every day, stop asking."

"Yeah but what time is it _now_? I need something relative."

"There's a clock right there on the wall!"

"That? I can't read that thing."

"You can't read analog clocks?!"

" _No_ Simmons, do I look like a caveman? This isn't the Stone Age."

Simmons covered his face and suffered.

"Just let me out and I'll get out of your hair. Let me out or feed me."

"Okay, well, I can't do either of those things so suck it up." Simmons resumed what Grif determined to be incredibly nerdy work that couldn't be as important as he thought it was.

"Could you at least stop talking all my blood?"

"I'm barely taking any! Stop being such a baby!"

"Okay look, when a guy is being held _against his will_ as a medical experiment, he's entitled to some complaining. I mean, I am a _prisoner_ here!"

"You aren't a prisoner!" Simmons protested.

Grif stared at him.

"You just...can't leave."

"So that's why the door's always locked unless someone is in here with me?"

"Exactly."

"And _you're_ supposed to stop me? I'm pretty sure I could fall on you and break half your bones."

"That's why I have a taser."

" _HOW IS THIS NOT A PRISON?!_ "

"Careful!" Simmons grabbed Grif's arms and lowered them back down onto the cot. "We don't have a lot of that solution."

"So take it out! It burns anyway!"

" _No._ Everyone in your test block is getting it. You need to get it too or you'll screw up the data."

"It burns," Grif muttered mutinously, glaring at the sky. Or what was visible of the sky past a pane of dirty bullet-proof glass and bolted-down paint-peeling bars. Nice.

The silence was uncomfortable, and Grif bet that's why Simmons felt compelled to speak. Simmons didn't like uncomfortable silences, they made him even more nervous than he usually was. Grif had learned a lot about Simmons, since he was the one Grif hated the least so he was the one the staff always sent in to collect samples and check his vitals. "Look, I know this situation isn't uh...isn't _ideal_ for you-"

Grif scoffed.

"-BUT," Simmons continued loudly, "you're doing something really important by letting-"

"Not letting."

"-us perform these tests-"

"Not tests! _Experiments._ "

"Dammit Grif, you could save the world!" Simmons just stopped short of throwing down his pencil. "Doesn't that matter to you? Like, AT ALL?"

"Let me tell you something, Simmons." Grif folded his hands atop his belly. "And I'm gonna be honest with you, because I don't like you. No, saving the world does NOT matter to me and you wanna know why? Because the world doesn't give a shit about me. It doesn't give a shit about you, either. Even if the human race survives, you know what they'll write in the history books? It won't be 'Dr. Dick Simmons and his selfless lab rat Dexter Grif saved the human race with their brilliance, ingenuity and sacrifice.' Nope. The most you'll get is part of a footnote as some anonymous Red Cross lackey and me? Once they're done with me, I'll be lucky to get my own body bag."

Simmons flinched. "That's not..."

"But what if the human race dies, Grif? Well, the world won't care. In fact the world would probably be a lot better off without us fucking things up. Polution and deforestation would be a thing of the past and all the cute little wild animals would just move in where we vacated and repopulate. Maybe in a few million years the ecosystem could balance itself back out after all the shit we did to it with just a couple hundred years of industrialism. I mean, that is impressive, if you wanna get into it. What other species could wreck a planet so fast? We're pretty awesome at wrecking shit.

"Seriously though, I bet this virus thing was basically God or Mother Nature or whatever power you wanna believe in hitting the reset button. Seems like a pretty obvious 'fuck off' to me. So in conclusion? No, I don't care about saving the world. There's only one thing I care about." Grif patted his stomach. "This right here."

Simmons stared at Grif, then down at his notes.

"So do you have any Little Debbie snack cakes or what?"

Simmons got up and left. The door lock clicked shut behind him and Grif sighed, tilting his head back and staring up at the ceiling. He debated pulling out the IV before deciding it would be too much work to deal with the backlash later.

The door opened a lot sooner than he was expecting. A package of HoHos smacked him in the face. "It's bacteria, you moron."

Grif tore into the package and tried not to think about how long it had been since he'd last had one. "I literally do not care."

"If it was a virus this would be a lot easier."

"Don't care."

"Because of the overuse of antibiotics in the last forty years and the sheer number of undocumented cases-"

"Oh my _god_ shut up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All Spanish is achieved with Google Translate. I sincerely apologize to any speakers for any mistakes I may have made!
> 
>  
> 
> ["No estoy ahorrando si vas," Lopez warned, not looking up from organizing the ammunition bag.
> 
> "I'm not saving you if you go," Lopez warned, not looking up from organizing the ammunition bag.]
> 
>  
> 
> ["¿POR QUÉ MIS RACIONES?"
> 
> "WHY MY RATIONS?"]
> 
>  
> 
> ["¿Por qué estoy todavía con estas personas...?"
> 
> "Why am I still with these people...?"]


End file.
